


What I Want

by f-ing-ruthless-baz (my_mad_fatuation)



Series: I'll Tell You [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Bisexual Simon Snow, Casual Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Or Is It?, POV Simon Snow, Roommates, Secret Crush, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-19 10:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17599667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_mad_fatuation/pseuds/f-ing-ruthless-baz
Summary: I’m not sure how it happened, really, but at some point in the last few weeks of sharing a room with him, I realized that I might be falling for Baz. Despite his apparent disdain for me. So now I’m stuck living in close quarters with a guy who frustrates the hell out of me every goddamn day—both mentally and sexually—and there’s nothing I can do about it.-----Simon and his university roommate, Baz, don’t get along very well. But Simon wishes they did. Maybe a little too much.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ***Obligatory first-timer disclaimer*** This is my first Carry On fic, so yes, the characterization is off and the idea is pretty trite and I have no clue what the heck I'm doing. (Also it's been like 10 years since I've written M/M, for some reason, so it's a bit terrible.) (Jeez, I'm old.)
> 
> This fic is the first in a ~~three-part~~ five part (???) series, the first two of which have already been written, so the chapters will be posted quite soon after one another, I think. This part is Simon's POV, but part two is Baz's. (And I will tag it as such so that it's clear.)
> 
> Just to set the scene for you here, Baz and Simon just started at university and are roommates (obviously), but they're 19 because they both took gap years before starting, which may or may not become relevant in future parts of this series. They'd never met before move-in day, though.
> 
> Okay, I think that's all I need to get out of the way for now. Continue.

My roommate and I don’t share things. Except a room, of course. But personal details about ourselves? Not so much. Move-in day at the start of uni was probably the most in-depth conversation we’ve ever had.

We’d received our room assignment two weeks earlier, so I already knew his name—Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch—a name which I’d spent the whole two weeks leading up to move-in trying to memorize so that I wouldn’t embarrass myself when we finally met. I even tried to introduce myself via email, as we’d been given each other’s university-appointed email address, but I got no response. He probably hadn’t logged into his account much during the summer, I figured.

By the time I had picked up my key and located my room on the day, half of it was already set up when I arrived. The half that wasn’t mine, clearly. I didn’t have a problem with this, of course, because the room seemed basically identical on both sides: closets on either side of the door; a pair of single beds that had been raised to accommodate dressers underneath, lining the walls opposite one another; and a desk by the foot of each bed. Right below the window on the far wall from the door there was also a mini fridge, which, at the time, I thought belonged to the building, but it was in fact my roommate’s addition. My roommate who was nowhere to be found.

I was still unpacking my suitcases when he finally showed up, walking into the room as if he’d done it a million times before, only to stop in his tracks at the sight of me. That wasn’t a good sign.

He appeared genuinely startled for a moment and then grimaced and smoothed back his long, black hair. (Long for a bloke, anyway.) “I suppose you’re my roommate,” he said. “Uh, Snow… Something-or-other Snow, yeah?”

“Simon,” I snapped, responding much more harshly than I intended, but come on, I had taken the effort to remember his full long-ass name, and he couldn’t remember three whole syllables? “And I suppose that makes you—”

“Baz,” he interrupted as he cut his way across the room to dump a cloth bag full of chunky textbooks on his desk.

“Just… Baz?”

“Yep.”

“Okay… Cool.” I did not, in fact, think it was cool that I wasn’t even getting a chance to show off all my hard work, though, but I didn’t want to make a big thing of it.

He leaned against the side of his bed, the top of the mattress hitting him about mid-thigh, with his arms folded across his chest. “So, look, Snow—”

“ _Simon_ ,” I said to correct him. Being called _Snow_ just felt so patronizing.

He eyed me in a way that suggested he did not appreciate my correction. “I was just saying, I think it best that I get something out of the way right off the bat, that way there won’t be any confusion later. So, I’m just going to say it: I’m gay.”

“Oh!” I replied. I wasn’t really sure how to respond to that.

His gaze shifted down to the floor. “Yeah. So. Are you…?”

“Oh, well, no, I’m not really—”

“You’re not really okay with it?” he asked when he looked back up at me, an expression of surprise and disgust on his face.

“What?” I got a bit flustered when I realized how I’d inadvertently made an ass of myself. “No, no, I meant—I misunderstood the question, but I—I’m totally okay with you being gay, one hundred percent, but I thought you were asking if I was also gay, so I said no because I’m… not…”

He continued glaring at me for a moment before his attention veered towards the bed on my side of the room, which now featured the Spider-Man sheet set that I originally thought would seem funny and ironic but in actuality was quite pathetic. “How old are you?” he asked when he looked me in the eye again.

“Nineteen…”

“So not seven, then?”

“Okay, well, see, the thing is, I only did this ‘cos—”

“I don’t need your whole life story, Snow,” he cut in as he pushed himself away from the edge of the bed. “I’m gay, you’re not. That’s all we need to know about each other.”

I watched as he left without another word, wondering if I should have said something, if I should have spoken up. I didn’t like the idea of him thinking we couldn’t be friends just because he’s gay and I’m not, especially considering that I’m not exactly _straight_ , either…

Alright, so I don’t know exactly where I fit on the scale, but I’ve definitely had crushes on boys before—well, one boy, anyway. Until now, that is.

I’m not sure how it happened, really, but at some point in the last few weeks of sharing a room with him, I realized that I might be _falling for Baz_. Despite his apparent disdain for me. So now I’m stuck living in close quarters with a guy who frustrates the hell out of me every goddamn day—both mentally and sexually—and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Okay, _sure_ , I could tell him how I feel. And then what? Either he spurns me and laughs at my misery, or we fool around once and then he drops me, like every other guy who’s passed through here over the last month. Like whichever guy he’s out with right this minute…

I give up trying to write the essay I’ve been working on for the past hour, even though it is due in the morning and I’ve only finished the introductory paragraph, and push my chair back from the desk so I can give myself some mental and physical distance. I tip back and try to keep the chair balanced on its hind legs for a minute, but when I feel myself about to fall over, I grab the edge of my desk and pull myself upright again.

Tired of remaining seated, I get up and start to pace around the room. It’s nice when Baz isn’t here, because I can pace the whole length and breadth of the area between our beds without him snapping at me for being on his side of the room. In fact, I rather like being on his side of the room. It smells nice.

He’s much more into grooming products than I am—not to mention more into laundering his bedding frequently—so his side of the room always smells faintly like his distinct blend of shampoo, soap, deodorant, and laundry detergent. It’s quite a pleasant combination, actually. (I have no idea what the _notes_ of it are, but I’m sure he could name them all.)

On my third or fourth loop of the space, I stop directly behind his desk chair and eye the cardigan that he’s left draped over the back of it. The cardigan that I saw him wearing all afternoon, because he changed into something _fancier_ for his date. Out of curiosity, I pick it up to examine it up close, although I’m not sure what I’m looking for.

I hold it up by the shoulders in front of me, at about the height that I figured Baz’s shoulders would be if he were standing there, and wonder if this is sort of what it would be like if he ever let me get anywhere near him. I lower my arms and pull the cardigan in even closer to me and, despite the fact that I know it’s a really creepy thing to do, I sniff it.

It’s a bit of a mindfuck, to be honest, because the scent is like the concentrated version of his side of the room, but there’s something else in it—something incredible—that I have to assume is just _him_. I never would have thought that a boy could smell so good, considering how I always smell like a rotting onion when I go a day and a half without showering, but _holy shit_ , does he ever. I bury my nose in it, trying to breathe in as much of him as I can; I seriously think I’m getting high right now.

I start to imagine how it must feel to actually be with him. To nestle my face in the crook of his neck and smell him, just like this. To hold him, and have him hold me back. To kiss him and—

I hear the sound of a key in the lock and immediately throw the cardigan onto the chair before lunging back over to my own, where I sit and frantically start typing some nonsense on my computer so Baz will think I’ve been at my desk the whole time. Were he to scrutinize me more carefully, though, he’d probably suspect that I’ve been looking at something dirty on the Internet, with the way my pulse is racing and my cheeks are flushed.

“Oh. Snow. You’re here,” he says unenthusiastically when he walks in and sees me. He’s not alone, either. “Don’t you have anywhere else to be right now?”

“I have to write this essay by tomorrow, Baz,” I tell him, thoroughly annoyed at his inconsiderateness. Although it’s not unusual for him to bring a guy back to our room—and tell me to piss off for a while, as a result—I’ve already made it clear to him that I really need to get this assignment finished tonight. “Can’t you and your friend hang out somewhere else instead?”

“No,” Baz says flatly. “Just go to the library to work on your essay. They have those desks with the ergonomic chairs that are better for your back, anyway.”

I look at him curiously, and for a moment I wonder if he’s just suggesting it to get rid of me, or if he’s actually concerned about my wellbeing and spinal cord. The look of impatience he gives me when I don’t get up to leave immediately, however, makes it pretty clear he’s only looking out for himself.

As per usual.

***

As much as I hate having to vacate my room every time a certain roommate of mine demands private use of it, I also hate that he was right; the chairs at the library are way more comfortable to sit in for long periods of time. I’m also getting a lot more writing done than I did back in the room because there are fewer distractions—and cardigans.

(Actually, there are cardigans on a few of the people nearby, but none that I want to fondle, so…)

That still doesn’t mean that I’ve enjoyed sitting here for the last two hours of my exile. And how much alone time do they actually need, for crying out loud? I can’t exactly imagine Baz as the romantic chat-n-cuddle type who likes to spend hours with someone; he’s strictly business, as far as I can tell, and how long can that take, really?

Okay, yeah, I’ve never been _physically intimate_ with a boy before so I don’t actually know. But I’ve done (some) stuff with girls—one girl, technically—and even that didn’t take this long. Plus, I imagine it’d be easier to get a guy off since I’d have a bit of a better idea what the hell I was doing… Possibly…

Wow, the library is definitely not the place to start thinking about _that_ , so I’m just gonna push the thought aside and focus on my essay. I’ve only got a couple paragraphs to go before the conclusion, anyway.

While my fingers are hovering over the keys as I try to think of what to type next, I can hear my mobile vibrate on the table next to me. I check on it to see that I have a text from Baz: _“Coast is clear, Snow.”_ (Yes, he actually uses commas in his texts.)

Despite the fact that I know it’s probably better for me to continue working in the library until this essay is finished, the thought of going back to my room, getting into my pyjamas, and hunkering down with my laptop in bed to write until the wee hours, all while spying on Baz as he plays _Stardew Valley_ on his computer—I know, right?—just sounds so appealing. I don’t even have to give it a second thought as I pack up my laptop, throw on my jacket, and head straight back to the residence hall. I barely even notice the drizzle coming down outside as I make my way, practically running.

When I get to our room, I find Baz stretched out on his bed with his head propped up against the wall that separates the bed from the closet, reading a book that could either be for school or for pleasure; I can never tell with him. He doesn’t even glance in my direction as I walk in and set my laptop case on my desk. The fact that he’s ignoring me should not come as a surprise by now, but something about his lack of acknowledgement tonight just sets me off.

“I need to say something to you,” I begin heatedly.

He slowly looks up from his book with a hint of annoyance on his face. “Oh?”

“Yeah—Yes. I just think it’s totally unfair for you to take over the whole room—a space that we _share_ —whenever you want, at the drop of a hat! This is my room as much as it is yours, and you need to be respectful of that. And so I’m _sorry_ that I asked you, for one goddamn night, to just keep it in your pants so I can do my _schoolwork_ —you know, the reason why we’re here in the first place—but I think I have that right!”

He fixes me with a blank stare for a moment. “You finished?”

“What?”

“Your rant. Is it over?”

I don’t really know what to say anymore. His reaction is not what I expected and has left me feeling deflated. “Um. I guess…”

“Great,” he says, and returns his attention to his book.

“Wait, is that it? Is that all you’re gonna say?” I can’t tell if I’ve won or not, but it certainly doesn’t feel like I have.

“What do you want me to say, Snow?” He doesn’t even lift his gaze towards me in the slightest.

“Maybe that you’re sorry!” I tell him, feeling my anger return as it warms my face. “Maybe you could even admit that you can be a bit of a jerk, and try not to be so inconsiderate in the future! Maybe—”

“Maybe you should take off your damn jacket and have a lie-down before you overexert yourself.” His eyes dart back at me for a second to pass judgment on what I presume to be my rather disheveled state.

I can tell that my hair is slightly matted down from the rain, drops of water are running off my sleeves, and my cheeks feel flushed from the rushing and the ranting. And yet I stare at him in disbelief as he continues reading, as if nothing is going on around him. As if this doesn’t even concern him. As if he doesn’t give a single _fuck_ what I think.

He doesn’t even care enough to _hate_ me, I bet. I’m just an insignificant speck of dust in his world.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” I grumble as I finally strip off my jacket in frustration and hang it on the back of my closet door.

“Thanks for the hot take,” he says disinterestedly.

I want to snap back at him with something but I know that no matter what I say, it’ll only roll off his back and make me feel even shittier, so I just hold it in and seethe for the rest of the night.

Why did I leave the library for this?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just felt like pointing out that their room is actually based on my room in residence during my first year at university--many centuries ago--hence details like the raised beds and stuff. Also, I'm not saying that I had Spider-Man bedding at the time... but I'm also not saying that I didn't.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're not a fan of awkward and embarrassing situations, then I apologize for this. Proceed at your own risk.

Baz and I have spoken even less since I called him out a few days ago. Well, he’s spoken to me about the same amount as always—like, hardly at all—but I’ve held back. I know I’m not going to get anywhere with him, and I don’t mean romantically. He and I are never going to be friends or even _friendly_ , and I need to accept that.

And if that is the case, then I don’t think I should have to cater to his every whim. I don’t think I should have to leave whenever he wants me to. I don’t need to try to ingratiate myself with him anymore.

When he walks in with some new guy while I’m reading—for school, not for pleasure—I’m not at all surprised that he kindly asks me to leave. Actually, his exact words are, _“Piss off, Snow.”_ But I refuse.

“You what?” he asks, like I was speaking another language.

“I said, _I’m not leaving_.” I stare him in the eye to show that I mean it.

His grimace of contempt slowly turns into a smirk and he gives his guest a small shove in the direction of his bed. “Are you just going to stay and watch, then?” he says to me. “Because that seems kinda gay, Snow.”

I glower at him for a moment, but we both know that I don’t want to stick around for _that_ , and I hate it. I hate that he always wins.

Defeated, I slip down off my bed and shove my feet into my trainers without even tying them up. “Fuck you,” I mutter on my way to the door with my book in hand.

“Toodles,” he replies mockingly.

It takes all the restraint I can muster for me not to turn around and punch him the face, because I know that wouldn’t fix anything. Plus, I know that I would probably feel bad if I actually managed to hurt him, and I’d just end up trying to kiss it better…

_Why am I so pathetic?_

***

It’s nearly a week before Baz brings anyone back to our room again, but this time I am determined to stand my ground. I know he’s only bluffing; he’s not going get off with someone _while I’m in the room_. He’s just trying to scare me away. But I’m not going to let him.

“Snow, did you hear me?” he asks after I completely ignore his initial request for me to get lost.

“I heard you,” I say as I keep my eyes fixed on the book I’m (still) reading for class, though I’m not actually digesting any of the words on the page at the moment. I’m too fixed on ruining Baz’s plans.

“And?”

“And I don’t care.” I look over at him, smiling pleasantly, because I know that, for the first time, I’m going to win.

He eyes me with distaste, though I can see the hint of a smirk on his face. “You don’t care, huh?”

“Nope,” I reply with a shrug.

“Fine.” He turns to his guest and adds, “You don’t mind working in front of an audience, do you?”

“Uhh…” The guy looks like a deer caught in headlights as he glances at me and then back at Baz.

“Good.” Baz takes him by the arm and pulls him in to kiss him, at which point my eyes snap back to my book.

I can hardly believe how far Baz is willing to take this bluff, but I’m not bothered at this point. Or, at least, I don’t want him to think that I am. I can’t win if I back down now.

I hear rustling as their jackets fall to the floor and they kick their shoes off, which land on the carpeting with soft thuds, while they make their way further into the room. Their mouths keep making these little wet smacking noises every so often, and I regret that I’ve left my earbuds over on my desk. I would get up and fetch them but I’m too busy trying to pretend that I’m not even here—for my own benefit, not theirs. The sound is very distracting, though. I haven’t managed to read a single word since they got here.

It soon becomes impossible for me to resist the urge to look over in their direction. Maybe I have a secret masochistic streak when it comes to incredibly uncomfortable situations, or maybe I’m just curious. Curious about what Baz is actually like underneath it all. (Underneath his cold exterior, I mean!)

It’s weird to watch him kissing someone—and not just because I’m the awkward third wheel in the room. He just never really struck me as the type of person who would actually do something so… affectionate. For all I knew, he treated his guests as receptacles for his dick and nothing more. Perhaps I was only hoping he was like that so I wouldn’t feel that I was missing out at all. But seeing him like this makes my unrealistic fantasies about being with him so much worse.

Seeing him be this intimate with someone, it sits like a rock in my stomach. At least when I thought he was cold and closed-off to everyone, I didn’t take it so personally. And I believed all my thoughts of what it might be like to kiss him were so farfetched that I didn’t even bother getting my hopes up. But now…

Now I know too much about Baz.

I know the way his jaw moves when his tongue is in someone’s mouth. I know the way he cups a person’s face with one hand while they kiss. I know the way he looks at me when— _oh shit_ , he’s looking at me!

I quickly return my attention to the book in my hands, but sneak another glance back at him a second later to see if he’s still looking. He is. He’s full-on smirking at me, too, while his new friend sucks on his neck. He thinks he’s fucking winning, that I’m going to back down any minute. But I refuse to give in, so I just try to stare him down until he looks away.

Baz brings his lips to his date’s ear and whispers something before lifting the guy’s jumper off over his head, which causes his t-shirt underneath to lift for a second, such that it exposes the lower part of his back, and my eyes dart around the room quickly. I am suddenly very aware that not only is my presence an invasion of Baz’s privacy—which is fine; the more unpleasant he finds it, the better—but also an invasion of the privacy of some random bloke I don’t even know.

_Why didn’t I just fucking leave earlier?_

When my eyes land on Baz again, he’s unbuttoning his own shirt—he likes to wear button-downs when he goes out at night, like he thinks he’s better than everyone, I guess—as he leans against the side of his raised bed while they continue making out. I know it’s time for me to look away now; no, actually, it’s time for me to leave. But I can’t.

First of all, I absolutely _cannot_ let Baz win this, or he will own me forever. And second of all… I sort of don’t want to. Yes, I know that sounds creepy and weird, but I’ve sniffed Baz’s fucking cardigan, so I’m a creepy and weird person, apparently.

I’m trying not to look, though. I’m really trying, but no matter where I avert my gaze, something about him just draws me back. It’s not just that he’s shirtless—he, unlike me, has has no problem changing his clothes in front of his roommate, so I’ve seen (almost) everything—and it’s not just that his hand is sliding around under the back of some guy’s t-shirt in a way that makes me want him to do the same to me. It’s not even that _he keeps looking at me, too_. It’s the _way_ he’s looking at me.

I don’t really know what that look is. Anger? Contempt? A threat? It doesn’t quite seem like any of those, though. It’s a look I’ve never seen from him before. It almost seems like… arousal?

Okay, I realize he’s currently engaged in a fairly _arousing_ activity with someone, but that doesn’t explain why he’s repeatedly making direct eye contact with me while he does it. Is it because he knows how I secretly feel about him, and now he’s using that knowledge against me? It’s like he’s trying to make me want him even more by showing me exactly what I’m missing, what I can’t have. Like he’s relishing that I hate how much this is turning me on.

 _Fuck_ , this is turning me on.

I bring my knees up towards my chest to try and hide the fact that something is a-stirring below the belt, so to speak. I really should not have stayed for this, but I can’t leave now, not in _this_ state. I lower my head and close my eyes to try and focus on anything that might help me rein things in a bit, but it’s really hard—no pun intended. It certainly doesn’t help that I can still hear them, anyway.

I take another glance in their direction when I hear the slight creak of the mattress as they climb onto Baz’s bed. This whole situation has gone way further than I ever expected and now I’m trapped here with one of the most ill-timed erections of my life while they’re about to… Nope, I can’t do this. This is so much more uncomfortable than watching porn—which makes me uncomfortable enough as it is, sometimes—because at least in that case the people you’re watching aren’t _watching you back_.

Thankfully Baz isn’t watching me right this second, as he leans back against the wall at the head of his bed with his date straddling his lap. He doesn’t look at me again at all until the guy he’s with stops kissing him to say, “Are you, uh, sure that he’s cool with this?”

They both turn their heads in my direction and the embarrassment I feel is magnified tenfold. I close my eyes again and cover my head with my arms as I clench my fists, thinking that maybe if I wish really hard, the earth will swallow me up and I won’t have to deal with this anymore. I seriously _cannot do this_.

“It’s fine,” Baz tells his date dismissively. “He doesn’t matter.”

That’s it. I snap.

“Just stop it!” I shout, lifting my head to shoot daggers at him with my eyes. “You’ve made your fucking point, Baz! You win! I hate this! Congratulations!”

A stunned silence falls upon the room for a moment.

“Um, I think I should get going,” Baz’s date says to him. “I’ll, uh, see you later.” He slides down off the side of the bed and picks up his jumper, jacket, and shoes from the floor before leaving the room—and Baz doesn’t even try to stop him.

I continue to sit fuming in silence for a while before Baz finally says something.

“You’re a real thorn in my side, Snow.”

“You think _I’m_ the thorn?” I turn my head to glower at him only to find that he’s staring at the darkened window on the far side of the room pensively.

He glances in my direction for a second, though his eyes seem to lack their usual malice. “Do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to be roommates with you?” he says as he fixates on the window again.

“Hey, living with you is no picnic for me either, pal,” I reply defensively, though his tone isn’t as biting as usual.

“That’s not what—” He lets out a sigh and rests his head back against the wall. “You know what, forget it.”

“What is it, then?” I ask skeptically. “Say it.”

He takes a deep breath and turns towards me slightly. “You know how you usually try to wake up earlier than me so you can get dressed while I’m asleep?” he says. “It’s like you’re afraid if I caught a glimpse of your ass that I’d go gay on you or something.”

“That—That’s not why I… I’m not _homophobic_ , I’m just shy, that’s all!”

“Yeah, well,”—his mouth curves into half a smirk—“sometimes I’m only pretending to be asleep.”

“What?”

“What can I say, you do have a nice ass, Snow.”

I’m not even sure how to respond to that. I know that he’s just saying it to get to me, and it’s clearly working because I hide my face between my knees and cover the back of my head in embarrassment.

“I mean, I already had a pretty good idea, with the way your jeans hug you,” he goes on, delighting in my misery, apparently, “but at least I could pretend that maybe it wasn’t really so great—until I got a proper look, that is, and now I’m completely wrecked.”

“You’re not funny, you know.”

“Yeah, well,”—his tone of voice sharpens—“it’s also not funny to have intrusive _gay_ fantasies about your _straight_ roommate, either, but that doesn’t seem to stop me, I suppose.”

I lift my head to scowl at him. “First of all, you’re still not funny,” I tell him seriously, “and second of all, you don’t even know if I’m straight, so—”

“You told me you weren’t gay,” he says with an expression of slight confusion on his face.

“I’m not.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “So what are you trying to say?”

“I just mean I’m—I think I’m—I’m probably bi, so, you know, you can’t just go around making assumptions about people when you haven’t even tried to get to know them.”

“Fine, Snow, you’re _probably_ bi,” he says as he rolls his head back again like he’s fed up with me. “So fucking what?”

“What do you mean, _so fucking what_?”

“I mean, just because I now know you’re _probably_ into blokes, too, it doesn’t mean you’d actually be into _me_ , so I’m still pretty much stuck in the same nightmare of a situation, aren’t I?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I say, bewildered that he’s taking this joke so far.

He quickly turns and lowers his feet to the floor. “I’m talking about the fact that sharing a room with you is like torture, alright?” he replies heatedly as he walks towards me, picking up his shirt and loosely throwing it on as he does. “Being constantly taunted with the one thing I can’t have. Parading in front of me, day in and day out. It’s agony.”

He’s standing right next to my bed now, glaring down at me like I’ve done something horrible, but I have no idea what.

“I’m talking about you, you idiot,” he adds, rolling his eyes.

“I—I don’t get it…”

“It’s like, no matter what I do, you’re always just… here.” He exhales impatiently and combs his hair back with his hand. “You’re always here, looking like a fucking _snack_ , and I—I know there are plenty of cute guys on this campus who are willing to get off with me, but—”

“ _Obviously_ ,” I interrupt with a sarcastic chuckle.

He frowns at me. “What, you don’t believe me?”

“No, I just mean that you’re, like, one of the hottest guys here, so it’s not surprising,” I say, though I instantly regret telling him that I think he’s _hot_. “Plus I can’t even count how many people you’ve brought back to the room, so…”

“That’s the thing, Snow; I can basically have any of them—and, yes, I take advantage of that fact—but I can’t have _you_ , which is, like, so goddamn frustrating because I just—I just want—Fuck, never mind.” He shakes his head and starts to walk away, but I immediately get up on my knees at the edge of my bed so I can reach for his arm and stop him.

I’m not exactly sure why I do it—I still don’t get what game he’s playing here—but I need to know. “You just want what, Baz?”

He turns back to face me, his eyes burning into mine, and I start to think that maybe he’s not messing with me after all. Maybe he’s… No, that can’t be the case, can it? I’m falling into a trap, I just know it, yet I’m still clutching his sleeve anyway. Like I’m clutching to hope itself

“Tell me,” I add quietly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you hadn't already guessed, this is the "smut" chapter, although I hesitate to call it that because it's not really my forte when it comes to writing. (Banter is more my strong suit, I think, but I did manage to sneak a little in here, too.) Nevertheless, I gave it shot. Hope you at least enjoy something from this chapter!

Holding onto Baz’s sleeve like this just makes me realize that I can’t remember ever being close enough to touch him before. Or maybe I just was never brave (read: _stupid_ ) enough to try before. “What do you want?”

“I just want… to know you,” Baz says, breaking eye contact from me, though the edge in his voice is gone. “I want to know what it’s like… to touch you…” He looks down at my hand holding onto him and strokes the inside of my forearm with the back of his knuckles. (I stop breathing for a second.)

“And I want to know the way your lips move with mine,” he continues faintly, his eyes still lowered. “I want to know how they feel against my skin.” (I can’t help but take a quick peek at the exposed area of his chest beneath his unbuttoned shirt, and contemplate just planting my mouth on his collarbone right now.)

He slowly lifts his gaze again, and I could almost swear he must be thinking what I’m thinking, looking at me that way. “I want to know where your weak spots are and how to make you fall apart.” (My grip on his arm tightens.)

His eyelids drift down, closing his eyes as if he’s imagining what it would be like—what I’ve been imagining for weeks—and he bites his lip for a second before he keeps talking. “I want to know the sounds you make when you feel like you just can’t take anymore. I want to know the look on your face right when I make you—”

“Baz?” I cut in, though I can barely choke out the word.

Baz looks me in the eye again and I can see the mix of desire and desperation on his face, the same as I’m feeling. My brain is telling me this can’t be real—that he’s just a really good actor—but the rest of me… Well, it’s telling me to give him everything, right here, right now.

I glance down at my hand while moving it to meet up with his, and he tentatively interlaces his fingers with mine. “Baz…” I repeat, practically a whisper, while I examine his face, now closer than it’s ever been. “If you want to know…”

He lowers his head slightly to meet mine, forehead to forehead, and I can feel the unevenness of his breath. “Snow, I…” he exhales as my free hand finds its way into his hair.

_What the fuck am I doing?_

All signs seem to suggest that he wants this as much as I do—but I’ve never been that great at reading signs, and my head is nagging me that something’s wrong. _Even if he does want me, it’s just for now. Just this once. Just to prove he can have whatever he fucking wants_. The thought rings with so much truth that it’s hard to ignore, but somehow I just don’t care anymore. Because the antagonism that existed between us before can’t very much get any worse, can it? I really have nothing to lose.

Shoving any doubts aside, I push my lips up to his, startling him for a split-second before he kisses me back. His lips are so much softer than I could have imagined, and his tongue just barely presses against mine when he opens his mouth, and his face smells so good that I almost feel dizzy.

He untangles our fingers and brings his hand up to the side of my neck, brushing his thumb along my jawline, while his other hand finds the small of my back. He pulls me in and my chest bumps into his. I grasp the side of his open shirt in a desperate attempt to hang onto him, because I’m afraid this could all collapse at any moment. I’ve only got one shot at this.

I slip my tongue further into his mouth and he lights up like a fucking Christmas tree. He’s leaning into me with his whole body and holds me tight against him while we’re practically devouring each other. I feel a cool hand slide up the back of my t-shirt and I shiver slightly at the skin-on-skin contact, eager for more.

Soon I’m pushing his button-down off his shoulders and he’s lifting my t-shirt over my head, and then my chest is flush with his once again. Our lips continue to grapple as he runs his fingers through my hair, tugging it at the crown to pull my head back so he can kiss and nip at my neck. Now I finally understand why some people have a _thing_ for vampires and such, because Baz could try to suck out my blood right now and I would fucking let him.

In this moment, I would let him have anything.

It’s not long before we’re both on the bed, me reclining against my pillow with my knees sticking up while he’s slotted between them. I can feel the weight of him on top of me as he starts to grind against me, and I can tell that he seems as _excited_ as I am. And if that’s the case, then maybe I should assist him…

I manage to snake my hands between us to pop open the button on his jeans when he suddenly stops and lifts his head to look at me. “What’s wrong?” I ask nervously, my fingers frozen on his waistband.

“Snow, is this… what you want?” he murmurs, holding himself at arm’s length above me.

“I—I thought that you…”

He’s breathing heavily as he gazes down at me with a look of concern. “If you’re only doing this so I’ll be nicer to you…”

I frown a bit when he sits back on his heels. “What?”

“I’m just saying, you don’t have to do—”

“I know I don’t have to, Baz,” I say as I start to sit up, my legs still at his sides.

And then I realize that he might not actually know. He might not know that I’ve had these intense feelings for him for weeks now. He might not know that this is exactly what I want—well, minus the part about him not feeling the same way, which I’m not about to nitpick now. The fact that he thinks I wouldn’t want this is laughable, really. So laughable that I can’t keep myself from letting a tiny bit spill out.

“Is this some fucking joke, Snow?” he asks, a harshness returning to his voice that has been missing for several minutes.

“No,” I say with an involuntary chuckle. I push myself further upright and rise to my knees in front of him, holding onto his shoulders for stability. I’m sitting taller than he is, for once, and hook my finger under his chin to lift it so I can kiss him again. “I want this, Baz.”

He melts into it a little and wraps his arms around me, pulling me close to him as he rises, too, until he’s slightly taller than me again. I take the opportunity to kiss him along his neck and collarbone as I trail my hand down to the bulge in his jeans, eliciting a low, choked off sound from his throat. _Holy shit, that’s a good sound._

I quickly divert all of my attention to getting his goddamn trousers down once and for all, because now _I_ want to know. I want to know the sounds he makes when he feels like he just can’t take anymore. I want to know the look on his face right when I make him—

“Come on, I’ll do it,” he mutters when he notices that I’m having trouble getting his zipper unstuck. He gives me a look that tells me I should be taking mine off right now as well, so I get right to it.

It’s a bit of a scramble, as one of my legs gets stuck for a moment, but once my jeans are off I am all over him again. He’s sitting now with his back against the wall that runs along the side of the bed and his knees bent in front of him, spread wide enough for me to fit between them as he draws me in. As we’re kissing and grasping and grinding against each other, it hits me that I don’t really know what the fuck is supposed to happen now. He’s so much more experienced in this area and I don’t know, well, _anything_.

“Uh, so…” I begin timidly, blocking his arms with mine when I feel him start to tug a little at the waistband of my boxers. “What, um—What is—Er, how… How does this work?”

His brow furrows and he eyes me warily. “How does what work?”

“I mean, like, what do you, um… want to do… with me?” I could slap myself in the face right now for sounding so stupid, I swear.

“Whatever you want, Snow,” he says, though he still looks a bit confused by my question.

I exhale slowly and rub my hands up and down his shoulders while I try to think how best to explain myself. “You, uh—You do this a lot, right?”

“Do what?”

“Stuff…?” I cringe at how awkward I’m being right now. “Like… with _guys_.”

“I guess…” he says slowly. “And your point is…?”

“Well, um, I haven’t, you know, done… um…”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah… I mean, not… _this_ stuff, exactly. Fuck.” I lower my head in embarrassment but he just hugs me closer with both arms around my back.

“We don’t have to do… stuff,” he says as he starts nuzzling against my neck. “Not if you don’t want to.”

At this point I just wish he actually were a vampire so he’d dig his fangs in and put me out of my misery. “I do, though… Want to, I mean. I just don’t know… what to do.” _I’m so fucking pathetic._

He lifts his head to look at me with a hint of a smirk on his face. “It’s not that complicated, Snow.”

“Easy for you to say,” I mumble, turning my head away slightly, but he definitely hears me.

“C’m’ere.” He kisses along my jaw until I face him again and he presses his lips to mine for a moment. “Just tell me what you want,” he says seriously. “What you really, really want.”

I pull back from him and squint. “Are you quoting a Spice Girls song?”

A full-fledged grin breaks across his face, like he thinks it’s the funniest thing in the world. _Who the hell is this guy and what has he done with my sullen roommate?_ His smile is contagious, though, and I can’t keep it from infecting me any longer. “You’re kind of a dork, aren’t you?” I say with a laugh.

He doesn’t look remotely offended. “You’re just learning this?”

“Well… yeah. I’m learning a lot of things tonight, apparently.”

“Oh yeah? So am I…” he says as the look on his face shifts from a goofy grin to a seductive smirk.

The way his eyes slowly scan me up and down is way more of a turn-on than it has any right to be, for the record. For fuck’s sake, it’s almost like he could finish me off with just a look. How the hell does he do that?

I take a moment to scan him as well—though I’m sure it’s not nearly as good when I do it—just so I can truly appreciate what is going on in front of me. Baz, long and lean and nearly naked, is sitting there with his legs to either side of me and his hands on my hips, and he is ready and willing to give me what I want. (What I really, really want.)

But now that I’m here, what do I actually want? Well, I want _him_ , I suppose. And I want him to want _me_. I want to please him. I want to get him off…

I’m certain that there’s a more graceful and, well, _sexy_ , way of doing this, but I suddenly crash my lips into his again and slide my hands back into his hair—which is surprisingly supple considering how much product he uses—tugging slightly, before letting go with one so I can slip it into the front of his briefs. I grab hold of him and just go for it, with absolutely no thought given to technique or rhythm or the fact that there’s very little room for my hand in there. I’m just too eager.

He lets out an unsteady breath as he parts his mouth from mine, but his exhalation carries a hint of laughter. “Take it easy, Snow,” he says in a playfully condescending tone, but it’s enough to make my cheeks flush (even more) with embarrassment as I loosen my grip on him. “Let me guess,” he continues. “When you play video games, you’re a button-smasher, aren’t you?”

“Fuck, sorry,” I mutter sheepishly, taking my hand away quickly as I pull back from him.

“I didn’t mean completely _stop_ ,” he adds, drawing me closer and kissing my shoulder. “Just… relax. We’ve got time.”

I feel his hands roam up the sides of my waist and then back down under my boxers, cupping my bum before he starts to pull them down. I soon push myself back from him enough to finish removing my underwear completely, and he takes the opportunity to do the same with his. Once they’re off he immediately drags me back into position in front of him, my knees right up under his thighs while his legs are bent up at either side of me.

He kisses me again, and there’s something gentle about his kiss at first, like he’s savouring each brush of our lips, but when I press my hands against his chest, I can feel the urgency in him swell as his kisses become more needy, hungry, insatiable. My fingers trail down his front, but they stop around his belly button—I’m hesitant to continue for fear of getting too eager and _button-smashing_ again. He, in turn, claws at my back with his short, well-manicured fingernails—I’ve noticed that he takes much more pride in his grooming than I ever do—and he emits a noise somewhat like a… whimper? Is that even possible?

“Snow…” he says quietly, breaking his lips away from mine and panting against my neck. “Show me… what you like…”

“What do you mean?” I ask, my brain foggy with desire as I run my palms over his abdomen.

He presses his lips closer to my ear and whispers, “Show me how you like to be touched.”

 _Fuck if I know!_ I’ve only once been touched _intimately_ by another person, and neither she nor I thought it was all that big of a deal. I’ve honestly had better times by myself… _Oh_. Is that what he wants to know? How I like to… touch myself? I don’t even know how to talk about that stuff, so how the fuck am I supposed to tell him what—wait, he said _show_ …

I try to look down to see what I’m doing as I reach lower, but he’s leaning towards me and his shoulder obscures my view, so I have to go by feel. I’m much more deliberate about it this time, though, and I softly brush against him before curling my fingers around his shaft. He’s exhaling shakily against me, gripping my back tighter, as I get used to this orientation; my hand is usually coming at it from a different angle when it’s just me, myself, and I. So I start slow because, despite previous evidence to the contrary, that’s usually how I roll.

The soft moans coming from Baz seem to indicate that he’s enjoying this as much as I do, so I keep going, slightly increasing my speed and pressure, and begin to stroke my thumb along the tip and front of the head, because it’s one of my favourite _techniques_ , if it can be called such a thing. He must like it too, though, because he presses himself up against the wall and rolls his head back, which is the most erotic fucking thing I have ever witnessed in my life.

I hadn’t noticed that his hand made its way from my back to the top of my thigh until now, though, when I feel it roaming inwards and upwards. My breath catches in my chest for a moment as he brushes against me the way that I had done to him, before he takes hold of my cock and tries to emulate my motions. I’m the one who exhales shakily this time, closing my eyes to try and calm myself a little, because I figure that erupting the second that he touches me would make me seem kind of pathetic and hard-up for affection. Which I definitely am.

I attempt my “technique” on him again, but he does the same to me—somehow he’s even better at it—and I let out a very unflattering noise that I have never made before and hope that I never make again, because _yikes_.

“Is that good?” asks Baz, and when I look at him he’s slightly smirking under heavy-lidded eyes.

I swallow hard and nod, because I don’t trust myself to try making any sound yet for fear of _the noise_. His movement is still slow and deliberate, but he speeds up a bit and suddenly there’s nothing I can do to keep _the noise_ at bay. I retaliate by increasing my speed as well, with the hope that maybe he’ll make an embarrassing noise, too, and we’ll be even. Unfortunately, the little sounds _he_ makes are incredibly sexy, so I kiss him again, thinking there’s a chance that it will make at least one of us shut up. It doesn’t work.

I inadvertently let out another weird moan and he pulls his face away sharply.

“Oh, fuck, Snow…” Eyes closed, he tips his head back against the wall again, and I can feel his hips buck beneath my arm as his hand on me slows to a near stop.

I watch him, my mouth partially agape, as his brows furrow with a look of intense concentration, and I don’t understand how he always looks good, even in situations where I’m a hot mess. But I can see his moment of release when it happens; his eyes go wide and unfocused for a second before he looks at me again, his breathing still heavy and uneven as his hips settle. I made that happen. I gave him that blissed out look. I did.

Soon his grip firms up again, and I close my eyes as he continues where he left off a moment ago. _The noise_ returns, of course, but there’s not much I can do about that now. I’m so close I don’t even care anymore.

“God, Simon…” he says, and I look back at him to find that he’s staring at me lustfully, like he’s still hungry for more. “You’re so fucking gorgeous when you’re about to come.”

Well, apparently that sort of flattery sends me over the edge, because suddenly I reach my crest, and I groan in sweet relief as my vision goes blurry and my whole body shudders. I collapse forward and let my head land on his shoulder while I try to catch my breath. “Baz…” I say when I’m finally able to lift my head and look at him again.

He smiles as he presses his lips against mine briefly. “Yeah?”

“You called me _Simon_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think this is a bit of a strange place to end, just keep in mind that this is only part one of the series, and the story will continue with the next part that will be going up soon, so keep an eye out. That one is Baz's POV, so it should be fun...

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I'm going to be super obnoxious and mention that I have a tumblr now for my _Carry On_ shenanigans, [@f-ing-ruthless-baz](https://f-ing-ruthless-baz.tumblr.com), so feel free to befriend me over there because I am so lonely.


End file.
